What We Will Never Know
by syntheticpoetry
Summary: Blaine doesn't know when things took such a terrible turn, or why he can't bring himself to leave when the arguments escalate to frequent visits to the ER. Kurt begins to pick apart Blaine's excuses and steps in to save him from a whirlwind of abuse. AU T for now but possible M rating later on.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: The idea for this one came to me so suddenly, so intensely, that I couldn't ignore it. This is going to be a multi-chapter fic. At the end of this I'll put another note explaining a little bit about the format I have planned. Please review if you like what you see!**

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_CCCCCRRRRAAAAACCCCKKKK!_

The sound cut through the shouting, slow and tumultuous. His arm hung limply at his side, useless in providing protection for his face. He quickly recapped the evening's chain of events and wondered how it had come to this. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment in time when something had changed proved futile and he conceded to the fist connecting with his right side.

"Umph," he groaned as his knees buckled. He considered feigning either death or unconsciousness. Anything to get this to stop, to get **him **to stop. His weight became too much to bear and he finally collapsed. He hid his face against the wood floor and breathed in dust. Instinctively, his eyelids clamped shut and he was certain his attacker would take notice of his degree of helplessness, show a little mercy and ease off.

**He** didn't.

A shiny black dress shoe buried itself in his ribs before it relocated to his stomach. He bit back a yelp and breathed in more dust. It had never gotten this bad before. Maybe a shove here or there, a slap to the face once or twice, mainly a raised voice and venomous degradation… but never this. Never total loss of control. Never pure malicious intent.

Murderous intent.

_'Is that was this is? Am I going to die?'_ his thoughts waded through murky sludge in his fuzzy brain._ 'I'm going to die, he's going to kill me.'_

He felt paralyzed. His wounded arm stung to the point of numbness, something he figured must be attributed to some defensive action on his body's behalf. His brain deciding, "Don't you worry, I won't let you feel a thing." His eyes flitted open, something he hadn't been able to control. He was no stranger to the reflex, never able to keep his eyes closed unless sleep had whisked him away. The luxury of painlessness was too short lived, a silly fantasy he allowed himself to indulge in before the same dress shoe, one of a pair he'd actually purchased for his attacker as a birthday present, acquainted itself with his left temple.

This time, he cried out. Loud and sudden and full of agony. For a fleeting second he imagined stars dancing across his vision, but they were quickly overtaken by the insides of his eyelids. He would have no problem keeping them shut now.

It wasn't always like this.

**He** wasn't always like this.

Somewhere down the line though, this is what **he** had become. Something wet and warm trickled down his cheek; he couldn't discern whether the liquid was blood or a tear until it reached his mouth and he tasted metal. Blood. He was bleeding. It had never gotten to the point of bloodshed before.

_'How much is there, I wonder,'_ even his mental vocalization sounded hoarse and uneasy. Was it possible for your thoughts to stutter?

_'Am I going deaf now too or is he gone?'_

His eyes felt too heavy, his chest too tight and his body too stiff. He had no way of knowing for sure, but there definitely appeared to be a gentle air overtaking the room now. He swallowed hard and listened but all he could hear was his rapid heartbeat, oh-so-loudly in his ears.

_Thumpthumpthumpthump!_

It rattled against his ribcage, as desperately as the rest of his entire being, for an escape. One he knew he couldn't provide for himself right now.

_'No, you silly thing. Stay put,'_ he mentally chided his aggressive heart.

A faint vibration tickled his right thigh. He initially chalked it up to probable nerve damage, truthfully understanding nothing about the subject at all, until a brief moment of clarity reminded him, _'Cell phone. That's where you keep your cell phone.'_ The light vibration crawled up his torso, something he was certain he must have been imagining, and spread to the fingertips of his uninjured hand. _'Pick it up. Get it. Get help.'_

The task felt impossible. Perhaps after a nap.

Only a few seconds, what could it hurt?

_'You idiot, pick it up right now. Don't fall asleep, stay awake.'_

By some miracle his hand acted on its own accord and he grunted as he fought to extract the phone from his tight pocket. Somewhere in between convincing himself to take out his phone and actually going through the motions of it his eyes had been forced open. To his relief he discovered, yes, he was very much alone after all. And though his vision was blurred he could vaguely make out the name and only a snippet of the text messages on his screen.

**From: Kurt Hummel****(8:49 p.m.)  
**Blaine Warbler, you are SO late. Where are you?

His grip on the suddenly-too-heavy piece of technology betrayed him and it clattered to the ground. The distance of the fall wasn't much but the collision sent shockwaves through the throbbing gash on his temple and straight into his sensory nerve center. His head had never known such pain before. His body though… that was another story.

Bile began a slow trek up his throat and he knew he didn't have much time before he would end up getting sick all over himself. His phone vibrated and crawled across the floor, as Kurt was, no doubt, continuing to send messages. He imagined each message was filled with more annoyance than the last, along with silly, empty threats of refusal to provide biscottis and coffee.

_'Pick up your phone and text him. Come on, pick it up again. Do it.'_

He haphazardly flung his hand over his phone, leaving it on the ground while he tried to steady his trembling hands long enough to slide his finger across the "unlock" bar and hastily type a message. There was nothing hasty about his actions though. It was as though he was moving through water, unable to force himself to go any faster while rip tides threatened to consume him and carry him out to sea. After what felt like an eternity he was able to fumble across the small touch screen keyboard and send his desperate plea. He'd never been more thankful for autocorrect than right now.

**To: Kurt Hummel (8:57 p.m.)  
**Help me

'That's not good enough, he needs to know where to find you.'

**To: Kurt Hummel (9:00 p.m.)  
**Apt. Hurry

He didn't have time to debate whether or not Kurt would understand his abbreviation for apartment, whether he would actually understand the urgency behind such carefully crafted messages.

_'Hurry, please hurry…'_

He could feel the phone vibrations against the floor, working their way towards him and nesting in his bones.

One pulse.

Two pulses.

Three…

Kurt was calling him and he wouldn't have to slide the "unlock" button this time. He dragged his finger over the green "Answer" button and Kurt's frantic voice sounded off so loudly that he didn't even try for the "Speaker" button.

"This isn't funny, Blaine! You can't just cancel on me like a normal person? You always have to make such a dramatic show of everything. You probably forgot about our plans because you were too busy fucking—"

Blaine exhaled sharply into the microphone, inhaled and repeated the action before a small sob breached his lips.

"Blaine…? Blaine, are you crying? What's going on?" Kurt's tone changed entirely, his anger quickly deflating into unwavering concern laced with panic.

"H-help…" Blaine had barely heard his own voice and guessed Kurt probably couldn't. But his mouth must have been close enough to the gadget to deliver the one word he managed to put the majority of his remaining energy into because immediately after—

"I'll be right there. Stay on the phone with me, I'll be right there."

Blaine could practically see Kurt's flushed cheeks as he relayed the message breathlessly. Blaine had no intentions of disconnecting. In fact, he had no intentions of keeping his eyes open any longer. Speaking had drained him; his curls were sticky with blood and he felt the same sanguine liquid drying on his face, constraining the skin beneath a flaky barrier. He was tired, too tired, and every muscle ached just a little bit more in his fatigued state.

"Blaine, are you still there? Blaine?"

Kurt's voice seemed distant when his eyes had shut once again. Distant and muffled. Everything began to fade away; everything except the dull, throbbing reminders of tonight's series of events.

"Fuck! Come on, Blaine answer me! Blaine! Fuck, move out of the fucking way— godDAMNIT. Blaine— LEARN HOW TO DRIVE, ASSHOLE! Blaine... Blaine…. Blaine, please…"

Kurt's words meshed together until they were only indiscernible syllables and consonants; Blaine drifted off into unconsciousness but not before one final thought made a meek appearance:

_'Is this what dying feels like?'  
_

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**So, starting with the next chapter, I'll be explaining the chain of events leading up to what happened here. Hope you guys enjoy it so far and please, please, please leave some feedback on your way out!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Don't own Glee. Only my love for dapper little princes, Blaine and Kurt.**

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"Excuse me!"

Blaine turned around instinctively, uncertain of whom the voice behind him was actually addressing. He didn't recognize the boy; a lightening bolt of oddity struck his tiny frame— he knew pretty much everyone at Dalton by now.

"Um hi, can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

He was cute, Blaine couldn't deny that, and his nervousness only added to that. Blaine smiled, eyes shining bright and expectantly.

"What exactly is going on here?"

Blaine's smile expanded and his excitement ballooned around him as though it possessed a physical form, "Come with me and I'll show you." He nodded his head to indicate which direction before strolling away from the staircase and allowing the mystery boy to wade through the crowd. "I'm Blaine, by the way," he added once the taller boy worked his way over and they began the trek down the hall.

"Kurt," the boy smiled and turned to look behind himself briefly, his coiffed hair bouncing with the sudden movement. "So… uniforms, huh?"

"Didn't they tell you about that when you applied to transfer over?" Blaine was clearly perplexed by Kurt's obliviousness to the rule. After all, it had been the first thing Blaine had been told when he spoke to the dean with his parents after-

'_No_. _Stop it. Breathe and focus.'_

No, he wouldn't think about that. Not now.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I must have forgotten," Kurt replied quickly, a little too quickly rather, and resumed looking around the school. While Blaine understood he was a new student, everyone had been shown around the school and received explanations regarding the dress code and rules. This kid was absolutely clueless… and skyrocketed Blaine's suspicions straight into the danger zone.

But he voiced none of his concerns.

They walked through an open doorway where a sea of navy blazers evidently moved as a single entity, chattering amongst each other. Blaine smiled at them and to his left Kurt mumbled nervously, "Well, I stick out like a sore thumb…"

"Don't forget your jacket next time, new guy," Blaine laughed and adjusted the studded lapel of Kurt's slim-fit leather jacket. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he strolled over to the center of the room and raised two mischievous eyebrows at Kurt's bewildered expression. New guy or not, this kid was certainly in for a treat.

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Blaine sat across from Kurt at a small table just outside of the room the Warblers had performed in. He studied the vacant expression on the boy's face; his entire demeanor was the complete opposite of what it had been when he first arrived. He clutched a Styrofoam coffee cup a little too tightly and his knuckles matched his pallor face. The abrupt change in his mood had caused Blaine to falter initially and he wondered if maybe it was a bad idea on his part to stare at Kurt so blatantly during the entire rendition of "Teenage Dream." But this was more than just that, it had to be.

"So," he cleared his throat and offered a gentle smile, "What did you think?"

"You guys were great," Kurt's voice cracked and tears seemed to pool in his eyes.

Blaine frowned as Kurt continued to stare ahead. At what exactly, Blaine could offer no guesses. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm not really sure how to phrase it," the lifelessness behind Kurt's words was starting to scare Blaine. The boy from the stairwell was still only a stranger to him, but this felt like an entirely different, new person as well.

"Give it a try and we'll go from there," Blaine replied coolly despite his own unease.

"Are you gay?" Kurt blurted out and fixed his eyes on Blaine, his tired, wet eyes that managed to age far beyond teenage years in a matter of minutes.

"Something wrong with that if I am?" Blaine snapped, a little too defensively before an angrier thought barked out, _'Look at him, are you serious right now? He's probably gay too, you idiot.'_

Kurt was taken aback by the outburst but Blaine's expression softened and he quickly added, "Sorry, I— er… force of habit. Yeah, I am."

"But," Kurt trailed off, evidently afraid of crossing some type of boundary. Blaine's expression took on a guilty quality; there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Kurt's hesitation had everything to do with his reaction to the previous question.

"But what? I don't look it?" Blaine guessed, keeping the mood light and cheery with a laugh though he was definitely still just as puzzled.

"No, not that— " Kurt replied in alarm.

"So I do look it," Blaine stated matter-of-factly.

"No, I— what I was going to say is, well…" Kurt rotated the cup between his hands, his slender fingers closed around it once he had finally managed to find the words he'd been looking for, "Nobody… minds? I mean, do they know? Your classmates were really nice to you back there." The words came rushed, traveling on a single breath and Blaine had to really listen carefully to be certain where to insert the spaces between everything.

"Pretty much all of the Warblers know, they're some of my closest friends," Blaine started and watched Kurt slump down into his seat. "But we have a zero tolerance decree in the school, which was sort of the reason why I transferred here in the first place…" Kurt raised his eyebrow inquisitively but Blaine didn't elaborate further.

"They explain it, along with the dress code you were surprised about, on your first meeting with the dean, which brings me to my next point…" Blaine leaned forward and lowered his voice, "You're not a new student, are you?"

If Kurt hadn't already been so pale Blaine might have commented on his new acquaintance's complexion.

"So what are you _really_ doing here?" Kurt's cheeks flushed and he stuttered out a series of syncopated excuses; he looked like he was going to be sick. "Just calm down and tell me," Blaine took a sip from his own Styrofoam cup and narrowed his eyes at the taste of cold coffee. He swallowed reluctantly and threw an offended glare at the inanimate object in his hand before he turned his attention to Kurt and watched him with patient eyes.

"I— well, you see- I didn't really," Kurt sighed in defeat and mumbled, "I'm from McKinley. Came to check you guys out, see what we're up against."

"But," Blaine added when Kurt hadn't.

"But, I didn't exactly expect… well, you," Kurt thumbed the lid of his coffee cup anxiously. "Or this. Sitting here, talking. It's— well, it's not what I'm used to. And it's really very nice, I'm enjoying myself for the first time in ages."

"People at your school, they don't treat you too well, huh?" Blaine set his cup down on the table and crossed his legs underneath himself, sitting Indian style in the rickety wooden chair. Kurt merely shook his head meekly, bordering on the side of bashful.

"It's like… it's like they hate me for just wanting to exist, you know? Like I'm not as deserving of it as the rest of them," Kurt's voice wavered before picking up steam and suddenly he couldn't stop himself, "It isn't fair, what have I ever done to any of them? And of course they're not all like that, but even the kids in Glee club with me, they don't really notice what's going on, do they? They try to claim we're this band of misfits, that we need to stick together and it's what makes us stronger as a group, as friends, but I still feel left out. We all get picked on and maybe that's what makes them turn such a blind eye to the fact that I get it the worst. I'm the one getting shoved into lockers, I'm the one being told I don't deserve to live and— oh god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Kurt covered his mouth with his hand and tears that he had been trying so hard to hold back streamed down his cheeks. He gasped into his hand and shook his head, embarrassed by his lack of composure. "I didn't mean to unload all of that onto you, you must think I'm some- "

"Stop that," Blaine stared back at him with empathetic eyes, eyes that understood only too well what kind of pain Kurt was alluding to. "Stop apologizing. Christ, why would you think you even _need_ to apologize for that?" Blaine rested his elbows on the table and kept his gaze focused on Kurt. "You don't have anyone you can talk to back at your school?" he was almost afraid of what the answer would turn out to be.

Kurt shook his head and pressed his palms into his eyes, the sight of his splotchy, raw skin sent shivers up Blaine's spine.

"It's good that you're saying something now, even though you don't really know me. You can't keep things like this to yourself; it's no good for you. You'll end up making yourself sick," Blaine searched his pockets and extracted a handkerchief, which he handed over to Kurt without hesitation. "I used to get a lot of… hassle," Blaine spoke through gritted teeth, wanting to spout off every profanity imaginable rather than describe his past so civilly, "from kids at my old school. And instead of standing up and dealing with it head on, I ran. I came here."

Kurt sat up, listening intently now. He was silent but his eyes begged Blaine to continue.

"I— it's something that I… really, really regret doing. Sure, I feel safe now. _Here_. But when I think about what they got away, what I _let_ them get away with," he clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, "I just wish I had said something. Stood up to them. Defended myself."

"Do you think it would have helped?" Kurt's voice floated serenely, working as a calming agent for Blaine.

"I don't know… but I would have felt better about myself if I knew I at least tried to make a difference. It's a really shitty thing to live with, it's a terrible thing to regret," Blaine rubbed the back of his neck and relayed his statements with a sigh.

"Do you think you would do it now if you could?" Kurt's eyes looked less puffy now and he spoke with a little more confidence.

"I'm not sure what I would do now. If I would scream, if I would— "

'_Punch their fucking lights out?'_

Blaine shook his head and allowed a resolute smile, "I would probably ask why they had such a problem with me when all I ever really did was keep to myself. I was never hurting anybody."

"When have they ever needed an excuse though, right?" Kurt mumbled bitterly. Blaine hadn't noticed when Kurt slumped down into the chair again— his entire form appeared defeated now, exhausted— but he nodded and leaned back, extending his legs onto the table and massaging his achy knees.

"So what'll you do then?" he reached for his coffee cup, remembered the reason behind abandoning it in the first place and set it down again. His head ached dully with the lack of his usual dose of caffeine.

"…say something, I guess. I mean, it can't get any worse than it already is," Kurt straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck. "What about you? Are you going to report me for spying?" a sly, but still deliciously shy, smile accompanied the question.

"Well, I— "

"Blaine, I've been looking all over for you!"

Kurt and Blaine snapped their heads towards the direction of the voice. Blaine obviously knew the owner behind the words, but Kurt watched the tall, lanky figure approach with both caution and curiosity.

"I'm so pissed I had to miss rehearsal today. Had to make up that stupid Biology exam I missed on Tuesday and it took forev— oh," he finally took notice of Kurt, "Who's this?"

"This is Kurt, he was just taking a tour of the school and we got to talking," Blaine smiled, oblivious to the violent waves of jealousy dancing around his companion's eyes. "Kurt, this is Sebastian— "

"His boyfriend," Sebastian added, with malice that flew right over Blaine's head.

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**Please review and let me know what you think about the story so far. **


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: As always, please let me know what you guys like and didn't like. Input is always appreciated and I've found it very helpful so far!**

**Trigger warning in place for disturbing images of a battered abuse victim.**

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"Blaine, please just answer me!"

'_What the hell could have happened to him?'_

"Blaine? Hello?"

Kurt selected the speaker option and dropped his phone onto his lap, grabbed the steering wheel with his newly freed hand and weaved his way (rather manically) through narrow open gaps in traffic on 7th Avenue. He'd become acclimated to "New York drivers" and could finally call himself one of them now. A red Ferrari blared its horn when he had cut it off– Kurt didn't even spare a glance at his rearview mirror to witness the driver's muted frustrations. He knew he was being reckless, but that strained desperation he'd heard in Blaine's quiet whisper told him that he _needed_ to be reckless right now. He pulled a sharp right onto 53rd street, snapping his head from side to side fervently in search of a parking space as he traveled up a few blocks. He'd wised up and sold his Navigator for a much smaller, more urban-friendly, Chevy Malibu; after spotting a vacant spot between a Honda Civic and a Toyota Corolla and squeezing into it with practiced ease he commended himself again for such a smart decision.

He raced out of the car, frantically clicking the lock button on his key remote a few times before sprinting up the rest of the block until he came to Blaine's apartment complex. His hands trembled as he sorted through the five keys on his keychain—he dropped them twice in his frenzied haste— until he found the spare key to the apartment that Blaine had given him, behind Sebastian's back, the day they had moved in. The security guard sitting at the desk waved and let him in. Kurt offered a quick "hello" and made a beeline for the elevator, jabbing the "Up" button a few times and checking the dimly lit numbers above the metal doors.

"Come on, come on, come on," he whispered hurriedly and pressed the button a few more times for good measure.

"In a hurry today huh, Kurt?" Kurt glanced over his shoulder at the security guard. His face was caught halfway between confused and worried and just as Kurt was about to answer the elevator doors popped open behind him with a quiet _ding_!

"Sorry, yeah," Kurt gave the guard an apologetic look as he backed up into the elevator. He scanned the panel of buttons and pressed the number 15 about four times before moving his finger to the "close doors" button and assaulting it equally as much as the others. His eyes stayed glued to the floor number display above the doors, the recitation of said numbers leaving his lips in breathy, anxious whispers with every passing floor. When the elevator finally stopped he fought the urge to pry open the doors with his bare hands—the key for Blaine's apartment was safely hidden in his clenched fist. The doors slithered open after a few seconds and he staggered out, the front of his boot catching on the small gap where the doors slid open and shut. He regained his balance and careered to the very end of the hall where a gold plated "153" hung pristinely on the door. He stuffed the key into the lock and fumbled with the handle for a moment before he was able to get the door open.

"Oh my god," the rouge splotches on his china doll face dripped away to another dimension—one where scenes like the one before him didn't exist—leaving him pallid and ghastly. "Blaine!" Kurt approached Blaine—who was laying facedown in an oh-so-very-still manner—and dropped down onto his knees beside the boy. He tentatively turned Blaine's head to the side, placed two slim fingers on Blaine's neck—almost too afraid to touch him at all—and checked for a pulse. A relieved sigh breached his lips at the presence of a gentle beating beneath his fingertips. "Blaine, can you hear me?" Kurt pulled the end of his shirtsleeve over his palm and held it to a sticky gash on Blaine's left temple.

'_There's so much blood, this can't just be from his head.'_

With one hand still to Blaine's head, he reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. Blaine's breath came in unsteady, strained hitches contrasting Kurt's rapid, panicked ones. He tapped "911" on the dial screen and laid the phone on his shoulder, holding it in place by tilting his head. He placed his fingers back on Blaine's neck, too paranoid to accept that the quiet pulse would hold steady—he needed to make sure it was still there, no matter how slow and faint.

"Blaine, come on—wake up, please—" tears stung his eyes but he wouldn't dare take them off of Blaine. "Please, I can't lose you—hello? I need—I need an ambulance at 58th and 7th Avenue, Skyway apartment complex, apartment 153."

"What's your emergency, ma'am?" the woman on the other line sounded so desensitized; Kurt briefly wondered how often she needed to repeat this cadence of questioning every day. He was too distraught to even correct the gender confusion on her part.

"My friend he—he's hurt, I don't know what happened. He—he called me asking for help and I got here and he's unconscious, his head is bleeding—"

"He hit his head?"

"I think someone did this to him… His face is—he's really hurt, please just send someone quickly. I can't—his head won't stop bleeding, what do I do? There's so much blood—" Kurt switched hands, substituting his dry sleeve over Blaine's head wound and pressing two bloody fingers back on his neck.

"Does he have any other injuries?"

"I—I think he might, I was too afraid to move him," Kurt flicked his eyes down to Blaine's back. A black sweater vest concealed any hopes of easily identifying any further injuries. "What do I do about his head? It's bleeding so much—"

"Head wounds bleed a lot, just keep pressure over it. I need you to try to check for any other injuries. Can you do that?"

"Okay," Kurt wasn't convinced by his own words, "Okay, yeah I think so."

He kept his hand to Blaine's head and, as gently as he could, took hold of Blaine's shoulder and pulled it towards him, positioning Blaine onto his side. He had no idea how he was going to work the sweater vest off of him, let alone how to undo the buttons of the dress shirt he had on underneath with only one free hand. He decided to start with something easier: one button on each of Blaine's sleeves was more manageable than an entire shirt. Kurt leaned Blaine against his knees and set to work on unbuttoning Blaine's shirt cuffs. After a few minutes of frustrated, panicked fumbling he was able to undo the buttons and push his sleeves up.

"His left arm is really swollen, there are bruises on the other one," Kurt's stomach lurched violently and he had to fight to keep calm.

"We can't really check to see if it's broken if he's still unconscious and can't respond. Other injuries?"

"It's hard to check, I can't—I can't get his shirts off easily and—" he snapped his head towards the door at the sound of approaching footsteps. "I think the—yeah, the paramedics are here," without much thought for being polite he took his phone from his shoulder, tapped the "End" button and dropped it on the floor. Within a matter of seconds though he'd been pushed out of the way and forced to watch them go about their routine, leaving him feeling even more helpless. He clenched and unclenched his trembling hands to feel as though he was proactively contributing in some way. They loaded Blaine up onto a stretcher, speaking in a jargon Kurt couldn't understand.

'_God, he looks even smaller,'_ Kurt spent so much timing staring at Blaine that he hadn't heard one of the paramedics addressing him. He blinked twice, swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from his battered friend to face the paramedic, "What?"

"We're going to be taking him to Mercy General," he repeated. He was young with worn eyes, eyes that looked as though they had seen far too much tragedy for someone who couldn't have been more than twenty-four. Kurt, still mostly catatonic, nodded in response without giving much thought to what the statement actually meant. Five minutes later they had left and he was alone in the apartment with bloodstains beneath his feet and adorning his sleeves like a macabre DIY tie-dye project. He knew something was supposed to come next, some crucial, logical step he was supposed to take—but he drew a blank. The only things registering in his foggy brain were the goddamn bloodstains. As if his body was on pause and someone suddenly remembered to hit "play" once again he dashed towards the kitchen sink and felt his stomach working against him, expelling anything and everything that it could while his mind kept replaying the scene of a bloody, helpless Blaine on the cold, hardwood floor. It had been a miracle he was able to keep himself in check until after the paramedics came—he was never one to be able to handle the sight of blood very well. The incident, the vomiting, the entire night left him dizzy and disoriented, but eventually—while rinsing his mouth for the fifteenth time—the next few steps came: go to hospital, call Sebastian.

And so, with one last look around the apartment, he left—navigating his way to his car and searching for Sebastian's number in his contacts all at once. Any other night this would have been a seemingly simple task, but this—of course—was not any other night. His fingers fumbled clumsily over the touch screen dial pad; he couldn't remember where he had parked his car; had those stairs always been there?

The second miracle of the night occurred when he finally reached his Malibu, the ringing of Sebastian's phone filling his left ear as he was faced with the new task of trying to align his key into the ignition. He paused his efforts momentarily when Sebastian answered in the usual drone he reserved for Kurt, with a hint of surprise, "Hummel? What do you want?"

"Blaine's in the hospital—well, he's being taken there—I'm about to drive over now. Mercy General," Kurt resumed trying to stuff the key into the ignition. "Where are you? I can pick you up if you—"

"Shit," he sighed, as though more inconvenienced than concerned, "I'll meet you there."

"Okay…" before Kurt could even think about offering a quick salutation, Sebastian had already hung up. He dropped his phone onto his lap, shrugging off the nagging little creatures perched atop his shoulders spewing conspiracy theories and possible tragic outcomes, started his car and drove away with the remembrance of plans of an evening with Blaine feeling more and more like a distant memory.

* * *

Kurt could never keep the smell of hospitals from tampering with his mind. Flashes of a numbed—but never forgotten—past assaulted him: first his mother, then his father, and now Blaine. Selfishly, he was beginning to think he was never going to be able to catch a break; he felt fated to constantly be subjected to witnessing the ones he loved suffer from a hospital bed, draped in sickening pale green gowns that reminded him how nauseous he always felt just from _being_ in this place. They all felt the same; from Lima to New York, they always felt the same—from the overpowering antiseptic aromas to the squeaky-clean linoleum floors.

Two hours, he'd been waiting. At least two hours. And Sebastian still hadn't shown up. Kurt allowed his mind to wander away from his discomfort and, instead, contemplated what could have happened to land Blaine in such a state. Initially, he considered a robbery gone awry. But the more that he let himself sit with the unsettling idea, the less it made sense. Nothing looked disheveled in the apartment; while he wasn't aware of everything the couple owned, nothing _appeared_ to be missing. The only thing that was out of place was Blaine… on the floor… bloody…

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and pushed those thoughts away. He couldn't think about Blaine like that; he couldn't consider the possibility that he wouldn't emerge any less of the man he was. Blaine was his rock in their friendship—he had no idea what he was supposed to do if Blaine was reduced to rubble.

'_Selfish. Stop it,'_ he rubbed his temples bitterly and sank down in the hard plastic chair. The waiting room was busy, full of people frozen in exact portraits mirroring his own despair. _'And where the hell is Sebastian?'_

Sebastian.

He lingered on the thought, biting down his suspicions and scolding himself for considering such a thing. Sure, Sebastian was a jerk (to him and pretty much the rest of the world) but never to Blaine. He would never lay a hand on Blaine, not like that… would he?

"So where is he? What have they told you?" as though Kurt had summoned him with his thoughts, Sebastian all but materialized before him.

"Where have you been? I called you two hours ago," Kurt pointed out politely.

Sebastian wasn't quite as kind in response to the question though. "It's none of your fucking business where I was, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Kurt held up his hands in surrender—warning bells now sounding off much louder in his head—and decided to change the subject back to the content of Sebastian's previous interrogation. "They haven't told me anything about Blaine yet," he folded and unfolded his hands on his lap. "And my guess is that they'll probably only let family in to see him so—"

Sebastian didn't wait for the end of Kurt's statement; he marched up to the information desk and slammed his palms down on it, startling the young nurse sitting behind it. "I'm here to see Blaine Anderson," he adapted an over dramatic tremble to add to his distraught tone of voice. The entire thing was so… fake that Kurt wondered why Sebastian thought that an act like it would even work in the first place. "I'm his brother."

Kurt's jaw dropped as he watched the spectacle unfold before himself. If Sebastian actually achieved access to information about Blaine and was permitted to visit the room he was in…

"ID, please," the nurse composed herself and stared back at Sebastian with the same unapologetic eyes he was trying to intimidate her with.

'_She must be used to people trying this,'_ Kurt thought and actually let out an audible sigh of relief.

"I don't have—look, I rushed to get over here. I didn't think to grab it!" Sebastian exclaimed in feigned hysteria. "I'm Cooper, check his file I should be on there."

The nurse held his gaze for a moment before turning her attention to the computer and rapidly tapped away at the keyboard. "I don't have a Cooper Anderson listed on his emergency contact list," she looked up at him with a glint of smug satisfaction in her eyes.

"That's impossible!" Sebastian had dropped the helpless brother act and replaced it with anger now.

"I have a Burt Hummel listed—"

"That's my dad!" Kurt gasped out as surprise washed over him like a violent wave. "That's—look, see?" he rushed over to the desk and dug his driver's license out of his wallet to show the nurse proof of his name. She looked between the documentation and the computer screen before nodding politely.

"Would you like me to call him or would you prefer to?" to his left Kurt could actually _feel_ the heat radiating off of Sebastian; he envisioned the flames dancing wildly and engulfing every living soul in the building. He kept his eyes forward on the nurse—who seemed to be much more pleasant and accommodating with him.

"I can call—I'll do it. It would probably be better if he hears it from me," Kurt placed his license back into his wallet and dug his phone out of his pocket. He took a few steps away from the desk, his back to Sebastian, and scrolled through his contacts list until he came across "Dad" and tapped on it. His back tingled with the presence of Sebastian's eyes on it but he tried his best to continue ignoring him while his father's phone rang once, twice, three—

"Dad?"

* * *

"_Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," Blaine followed Kurt into the kitchen through the backdoor, flashing a bright—but mysteriously anxious—smile in the direction of his friend's father. _

"_I don't know how many times we're going to go through this, kiddo—you can call me Burt," he turned away from preparing his sandwich to face them. "How was school?"_

"_Great, fantastic, fine—is the laundry done? I need to change, we're just about to head out again," Kurt breathed out excitedly and breezed past his father without waiting for an answer. Burt shook his head and looked back at his plate, picking up his overstuffed turkey and mayonnaise sandwich and lifting it to his mouth to take a bite._

"_Hey, Mr. Hum—er, Burt… can I… talk to you for a minute?" Blaine interjected with a few well thought out "um" and "uh's" scattered between the words._

"_If Kurt's changing his entire outfit, I'd say you have at least fifteen minutes," Burt, wanting to give Blaine his full attention, set his sandwich down again and gave it one last longing look before twisting around in his seat. "What's up, kiddo?"_

_Blaine placed his hand on the back of one of the unoccupied chairs and stumbled over an introduction; when that failed him, he dropped his hand to his side and looked between Burt and the floor a few times. Burt grew all the more curious—and, admittedly, a little concerned—as he watched the boy he came to believe was normally so well put together become reduced to a stuttering mess, floundering around for a life vest as he began to sink._

"_Is… everything alright, Blaine?" Burt tried to help steer the conversation into some sort of direction; anything would have be better than helplessly watching Blaine stumble over himself like this._

"_Yes, it's—everything's," Blaine sighed—resigned—and Burt was suddenly faced with uncertain hazel eyes, the flecks of colour eerily resembling each of Blaine's many insecurities. "I just… wanted to thank you. For, well—I mean, you've been more of a father to me this past year than my own ever has and," Burt watched, waiting patiently, all-the-while his heartstrings screeched loudly with each tug of Blaine's trembling voice. "You've come to mean so much to me; Kurt's come to mean so much—your—this family, it's… it's…"_

"_Blaine, you've become like family to us," Burt's heart lurched, this time the culprit wasn't poor health though, "I can see how much you and Kurt mean to each other—I've never seen my kid so happy before. And you're always going to be welcome here. I don't know exactly what the story is with you and your family," Blaine turned his gaze to the floor, clearly wanting to avoid delving into further details on the subject, "But I always want you to be able to feel safe here. If there's ever anything that you need, any way that I can help, don't stop yourself from calling me or asking, okay?"_

"_There… there is one thing I wanted to ask you," Blaine looked up at Burt again with—and he didn't know how it was possible—ten times more insecurity than when the conversation had started. It worried him; __**Blaine**__ worried him._

"_Ask away, Blaine."_

* * *

"Kurt, what's wrong?" Burt's voice let Kurt know that his father immediately detected the strain in his own voice. Paired with the fact that he normally never called past 11 p.m. unless he was in some sort of crisis, he knew he wasn't going to be able to hide any of his anxieties from his father. Not tonight.

"Blaine's in the hospital," Kurt snuck a subtle peek behind himself to discover that Sebastian had migrated to a vacant chair across the room, arms folded across his chest and spitfire eyes still bearing into him. Kurt swallowed, hard, and turned his attention to a series of informational posters regarding the dangers of smoking on the human body. "Did you know that he has you down as his emergency contact?"

Kurt could hear the small, sudden intake of breath on the other end of the line; he knew it wasn't fair of him to make such a blatant statement about Blaine's dilemma and then immediately turn the tables on his father and redirect with an irrelevant question. "Sorry, I blurted. I blurt, you know I do. You probably want to know how he's doing, if he's okay—but I really don't know, they won't tell me anything. Dad, I'm so scared for him. I found him and he looked so—so—"

"Stop for a second, Kurt. You know I can't ever understand you when you try to get everything out in one breath," Burt interrupted his son's rambling. "As for the emergency contact question… yeah, I knew. He came to me about," there was a pause and Kurt could actually envision the look on his father's face as he searched his memory, "four years ago now? Right around the time he turned eighteen. He asked me if it was okay for him to do it and I told him of course it was. Kid's like family and if his deadbeat father wasn't going to be around for him I wanted him to know at least he still has us."

He wasn't sure it was possible, but Kurt felt his fondness for his father swell to immeasurable proportions in light of this confession.

"Which hospital are you guys at? I was just finishing up some paperwork at the new shop," Burt added when Kurt failed to provide a response. Kurt sniffled—wondered when exactly he started crying—and struggled to regain control of his own thoughts.

"Uh—um—Mercy General. It's a few blocks away from Blaine's apartment," he rubbed his sleeve against his puffy eyes and remembered the dried blood, now embedded into the fabric; he recoiled from his own hand so suddenly that he attracted the attention of more than a few people sharing the waiting room.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Hang in there, kiddo. Everything's going to be alright," Kurt picked up on the sounds of shuffling papers and various objects falling off of—he presumed—his father's desk. He had been never more grateful for his father's decision to move to New York City with Carole to open up a new garage until now. No matter how much he teased the two of them when they first mentioned it to him and Finn during a family dinner on his last visit home, how much he claimed they just couldn't contain themselves from "keeping an eye on him" their close proximity, their decision to leave their life behind in Ohio and start a new one in New York with him, was something he held so close to his heart.

"I love you, dad. I'll see you soon," Kurt all but choked out before hanging up. He took a deep breath, bracing himself to deal with Sebastian, and headed back to the collection of empty chairs surrounding Sebastian. It was as though everyone knew to stay away from him; he was emitting his own force field of scorn. Kurt left an empty chair between them and sat down on Sebastian's left. His father's shop was all the way on the other side of town; it would be at least an hour until he arrived. Kurt wasn't sure what to do with himself in the meantime.

"So what do you think happened?" Sebastian's voice sounded challenging, almost as if saying, _"I get the feeling you think you know what happened, but you don't know a damn thing."_ It brought back the familiar feeling of something festering, rotting, in Kurt's stomach that just made him want to puke all over Sebastian's overconfident, threatening face.

"Honestly?" Kurt folded his arms over his stomach and let his gaze linger on the linoleum tiles for a moment before staring at Sebastian. Their eyes met and Kurt could see the devil prancing around and flinging daggers carelessly in every direction in Sebastian's; these weren't the eyes of a concerned lover, these were the eyes of a sociopath trying to project himself to the world as a regular human being. Kurt argued with himself as to whether or not Sebastian was someone he really _should_ be giving his honest opinion to right now. "Honestly, I…"

* * *

**Wahhhhh, what's Kurt going to say to Sebastian?**


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **IMPORTANT PLEASE READ** For those of you who have been following up on this story, this was previously Chapter 2. I've decided to switch it after working out a timeline for this story that makes more sense. So please go to the previous chapter if you'd like to read the new one. To new readers, this has been the proper order for you guys and I hope you all enjoy it.**

**Trigger warning in place for violence.**

* * *

"You don't think it looks tacky?" Blaine adjusted the white rose boutonniere on his date's lapel. "I didn't want something that would stand out so much, but I saw it and fell in love with it and—"

"It's fine, stop fidgeting with it!" Skylar laughed and slapped at Blaine's hand blithely. "You're going to laugh when you see the one I've gotten for you…" Blaine raised an eyebrow, took a step back from him, and watched as Skylar strode over to the fridge.

"Oh, it's the same one," Blaine grinned and shook his head in disbelief upon seeing the clear plastic container housing the delicate perennial. "Of course, I should have guessed as much."

"Come here so I can fix it on," Skylar motioned him over and set the container on the counter. Blaine traipsed the short distance between them and closed the gap. Though the general atmosphere of the evening was meant to be romantic for most couples, these two had no reservations about spending their time together as two very good friends. The idea to go as a pair had been Blaine's. It took a little convincing on Skylar's part, but he usually (always) eventually caved in to Blaine's schemes and requests— their friendship had blossomed so intensely over the course of a few short months that they assumed the role of each other's "best friend." Really, they were each other's only friend at all.

"Dashing as ever," Skylar smiled as he fastened the boutonniere to Blaine's lapel with steady hands. Blaine looked down at those perfectly stilled hands — always in control, always so precise— and brushed his thumb over a small scratch. "Jasmine was pretty playful this morning," Skylar laughed in response to the gesture.

Blaine shook his head and smiled, mostly to himself, before calling out to Skylar's feline companion, "Jasmine? Come here and give us a kiss goodbye, honey!"

Jasmine, perched atop the kitchen windowsill, poked her head between two panels of off-white venetian blinds upon hearing her name. She was an odd cat, in the sense that she chirped and trilled more like a bird rather than meowed, and Blaine adored her that much more for it. On cue, she chirped and kicked off of the window, springing through the blinds, and sent them clattering against the glass loudly. Blaine guffawed while Skylar scolded her, but she paid no mind to her owner and chose to prance over to Blaine's leg and rub herself against it.

"She's going to get fur all over you!" Skylar screeched in alarm.

"Oh, she just wants a little attention," Blaine spoke as though he was addressing a toddler, "Isn't that right, baby girl?" He crouched down and scooped her up in his arms; to his left, Skylar let out a dramatic sigh.

"You're incorrigible," Skylar shook his head, but Blaine noticed the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile. Jasmine chirped loudly in his arms and he returned his attention back to her, rubbing her belly until her purring was the only sound to fill the room. Blaine glimpsed at the clock on Skylar's stove before setting Jasmine on the counter and brushing fur off of his jacket.

"Is your dad still driving—" he coughed and spit stray cat hair out of his mouth, sending Skylar into a fit of hysterics.

"I warned you!" he doubled over, clutching his stomach as if he just witnessed the single funniest sight in all his life.

Blaine rolled his eyes in response and spit away more cat hair that had plastered itself to his lips. After a few moments of regaining his composure, Skylar carelessly wiped away a few tears and spoke in a voice that clearly meant he was still trying to force his laughter down, "He should be, let me go ask him."

Blaine nodded and Skylar disappeared into the living room. He could hear their muffled conversation, but wasn't able to make out any actual words that hinted towards what type of answer Skylar's father was providing. Jasmine rubbed up against Blaine's leg again, trilling her affections and demanding to be picked up again. "Shhh, not now, baby girl. When we get back—Skylar will throw a fit if I look like a furry mess because of you." She merely tilted her head in response and stared up at him with expectant, jade eyes.

"Okay, he said he'll take us now if we're ready to go," Skylar strolled back into the room and Blaine didn't miss the subtle hint of defeat adorning his features through the well placed smug smirk he'd adapted suddenly at the sight of Jasmine pining for Blaine's continued attention. "Should just take her with us, I'm sure she'd love for you to show her some of your moves."

Blaine smiled gently and wondered about pressing him for details on his half-hidden glum mood, but decided against it for now. "She'd be a hit, don't you think?" Jasmine answered with a loud mew before rubbing her head against Blaine's pant leg and collapsing onto his shoe. The two of them did nothing to suppress their laughter until Skylar's father appeared in the doorway with a stoic expression.

"You boys ready?" he asked gruffly.

"Indeed, we are, Mr. Young," Blaine offered a placid smile and, out of the corner of his eye, took note of Skylar's unease. He was now even more overcome with the intense desire to know what exactly had taken place during their living room conversation to lead to Skylar's distress. Mr. Young plucked his keys from the key rack by the back door and left them in the kitchen. Blaine took the opportunity to approach Skylar before they were meant to follow his father out to the car. "Everything okay? You seem… tense," he placed a light hand on Skylar's shoulder.

"Yeah, no I'm alright. Let's go, we don't want to be late," Skylar brushed past the question with a feigned smile that betrayed the obvious turmoil in his eyes. But Blaine knew better than to push him— if Skylar wanted to talk he would initiate the conversation— so he nodded politely and dropped his hand. Skylar gave Blaine's bicep a few gentle pats, a reassuring gesture they often offered each other, and lead the way out to his father's SUV. Blaine slid into the backseat while Skylar took the front passenger seat and immediately proceeded to fiddle with the radio.

"Oh, wait go back! I love that song!" Blaine exclaimed while Skylar tapped the station seek button rapidly, very much like a certain character from a film about toys they both shared a guilty pleasure for.

Skylar grinned and Blaine knew what the line was going to be before he even started, "Too late, I'm in the 40's, gotta go around the horn!"

Blaine leaned forward and mock punched his arm playfully, paying no mind to the stiff posture Mr. Young had adapted ever since Blaine had gotten into the car. "Come on, seriously. Please go back?" he offered his best puppy dog eyes. Skylar rolled his eyes in response and hit the number three preset button. "Thank you," Blaine replied in a singsong voice before joining in on the song.

"_So get back, back, back to the disaster. My heart's beating faster, holding on to feel the same,_" Blaine turned his attention to the window, drumming along on his thighs absently with his hands. The tension in the car remained the same for the duration of the ride to school and stayed well above Blaine's head, as always. No matter how amiable he was to Mr. Young, the older man still had never warmed up to Blaine. Being the good-natured, naïve, boy that he was though, Blaine never took notice of his misgivings— his only sole concern was Skylar, impressing and befriending his father had never been part of his agenda. By the time they had finally pulled into the parking lot behind the school and gotten out of the car Skylar's face looked ashy and he emitted tidal waves of anxiety.

"So you'll pick us up at 11, dad?" Blaine watched cautiously and resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow when he heard Skylar's voice tremble.

"Yeah," his father replied flatly before driving away without sparing them so much as a second glance.

"…okay, seriously, what did I miss?" Blaine blurted out dumbly and Skylar shook his head.

"I just want to have a good time, let's forget about it until later, okay?" Skylar adjusted his boutonniere, fumbling with it until it was really more crooked than straight.

"Forget about what?" Blaine smiled politely, despite the crumbling brick wall imprisoning his burning questions, and straightened it for him.

"Thank you," Skylar whispered and Blaine couldn't be sure if he meant for adjusting the accessory, dropping the subject, or both. He nodded, nonetheless, and hooked his arm through Skylar's to escort him through the doors. Without even entering the building the pair had six sets of eyes staring them down. Blaine kept his head high, apprehension already steadily building, and his attention on two things only: where he was walking and Skylar. His companion adapted the same contrived confidence as they made their way to the gymnasium.

"Okay so far?" Blaine muttered out of the side of his mouth. When he hadn't received an answer he turned his head slightly to find that Skylar appeared to be completely enamoured by the decorations. Blaine stifled a laugh, "You were on the decorating committee, bit egotistical to admire your work to the point of ignoring me, don't you think?"

"Shut up! They didn't look this good during the day," Skylar pouted, "I have a right to feel proud. You know how hard I worked on this."

"Yes, yes, I know. I haven't forgotten how you ignored my presence for days so you could paint stars and mythical creatures," Blaine feigned exasperation and Skylar continued to pout at him. "Alright, alright! How about I get us something to drink while you bask in your own greatness?"

"Pink lemonade if they have it, I—"

"Hate fruit punch, yes I know," Blaine grinned and unhooked his arm from Skylar's. "Will you be here or are you going to walk around?"

"I'll wait for you here. Be prepared to have me drag you around all night and show off everything else in the room that I worked on that you haven't seen yet," a sly smirk flashed across his features and Blaine was relieved to see that he was already starting to loosen up and enjoy himself.

"Okay," he replied with an overdramatic sigh tethered to the word. In truth he was pleasantly willing to let Skylar parade around the room and show off— nothing made Blaine happier than seeing the vehement fervor behind his friend's words as he discussed his interests and hobbies. The passion in his eyes whenever the topic of painting and art came up was infectious and Blaine soaked up every second of it as often as possible. The decorations looked amazing and he knew Skylar should be, and was, rightly satisfied with the results. Blaine waltzed over to the refreshment table and contemplated the meager options presented: pretzels, Lay's plain potato chips, fruit punch, (Skylar's) pink lemonade, and bottles of water— not exactly a wide spread. He filled up two small, clear plastic cups with pink lemonade and quickly turned to rejoin Skylar. Unfortunately, in his haste, he walked straight into one of his, rather large, classmates and spilled both drinks.

Blaine tried to brush beads of lemonade off of his jacket sleeves, but he was completely soaked. "God, I'm so sorry, I didn't even see you— "

"Watch where you're fucking going next—" Blaine averted his attention from his sleeves to the stranger who narrowed his eyes and stared down at Blaine with unmistakable disdain, "Oh. It's _you._" He chose to go a different route than Blaine and Skylar had, regarding outfit choice. While the two of them were dressed to the nines, an unkempt, hideous red plaid button down shirt, half tucked into his faded blue jeans, hung loosely on his boxy frame. He had a good twelve inches on Blaine, and at least sixty pounds. His mousy brown hair was slicked back with too little gel, leaving static strands jutting out in every direction.

"Me…?" Blaine tore his eyes away and started to kneel down to retrieve the empty cups, "I don't think we've met befo—"

"What the hell are you doing? Stay away from my—" the boy immediately proceeded to cover his crotch with both of his hands and jumped back, placing a few feet between them. Blaine suddenly understood.

"Seriously? Honey, why would you think I'd want _any_ part of that at all?" Blaine straightened up, placed a hand on his hip and stared at his classmate incredulously.

"Don't fucking look at me like that either," he reached both hands out and shoved Blaine forcefully. He tried to stay balanced but staggered backwards, right into the refreshment table. The glass bowls containing fruit punch and lemonade lurched violently, sloshing vibrant liquid onto the white, vinyl tablecloth. Blaine slammed his palms onto the table to steady himself, leaving himself completely open to another potential attack.

"I wasn't _looking _at you like _that_," he leaned back against the table, trying to put some more distance between himself and the other boy, but he might as well have been trying to reason with an angry bull. With the flared nostrils and red in this boy's eyes, the comparison didn't feel too far off. They had the attention of a few nearby students, but none of the teachers were anywhere in sight. Blaine had just enough time to duck under the table to avoid a full-body charge. The blood pounding in his ears made the cheers and jeers from the other students sound smothered— he had no idea which of them they were even rooting for or against.

"Mr. Walker! What do you think you're doing?" he heard a stern voice approaching and maintained his position under the table.

"I was—"

"About to destroy school property! I think your night is over. Come with me, we're going to call your parents to pick you up," Blaine listened carefully and watched two pairs of legs retreat before crawling out of his safe haven. His knees shook as he stood up, his hands sticky with spilt lemonade, but he didn't hesitate in striding over to where he'd left Skylar.

"About time, I thought you got lost on the way back. Hey, where are the— Blaine, you're shaking…"

Blaine turned his attention down to his trembling hands before quickly offering, "I sort of tripped and spilled them all over myself. I'm going to get cleaned up, okay?"

"Klutz," Skylar shook his head as he spoke. "Okay, I'm going to head over to the bleachers, so meet me there?"

Blaine nodded curtly and sprinted out of the gym towards the bathroom across from the darkened cafeteria. He knew he should have said something to Skylar about the incident, but he couldn't bring himself to ruin his friend's night when he was finally starting to have a little fun.

'_Besides, that kid is gone anyways. Just try to enjoy the rest of your night. Keep Skylar happy, it'll be okay,'_ Blaine tried to rationalize with himself as he washed his hands, repeating the last line in his head as though it was a mantra. As clean as he could get his hands, there was nothing he could do about the tremors; the entire incident not only left him upset, but infuriated. It wasn't fair; wasn't he entitled to a stress-free, night of bliss as well? He clenched his hands, eyes shut tight, but his nerves continued to send earthquakes throughout his entire body. _'I should have pushed him back, why the hell did I hide? Why the hell do I keep hiding?'_ The creak of the bathroom door to his left startled him and his eyes fluttered open to face the newcomer. He recognized the student, a classmate from third period English, and was greeted with a nod of acknowledgment before the boy disappeared into a stall. Blaine twisted the faucet shut and tore a rather large piece of paper towel away from the dispenser. His hands were finally starting to steady out, but the remnants of an adrenaline rush reminded him of his anger while his body resumed normal functions. He shook his head as he— literally— threw the dampened wad of paper with such force that it plastered itself to the wall with a wet _smack!_ before sliding down into the waste bin. Even his anger began to fade away while he walked back to the gymnasium— reduced to a low ebbing— so that by the time he reached Skylar again his smile was genuine and he felt hopeful about the remainder of their evening.

"I got us some lemonade!" Skylar held out a cup to him with a broad grin and he took it with a grateful smile. "And I put a song request in."

"What song might that be?" Blaine took a slow sip, pursing his lips when the much-too-sweet beverage overwhelmed his taste buds.

"It's a surprise, you'll know it when you hear it though," and with that Skylar offered no other hints, leaving Blaine curious and, he couldn't deny it, a little excited. Their taste in music was pretty similar, a pleasant discovery made during their early days of friendship, and they were always sharing new artists with each other. They'd also developed a knack for comforting each other through song choices, filling in the unspoken gaps of tense conversations with interludes of musical reassurances. As if saying to the other, _"I'm here, I know you don't really want to talk about it, but here's something I think will help you feel better."_ Lately they had been on a Keane kick and chose every opportunity they could to serenade each other to "Somewhere Only We Know." Aloud, they agreed on their appreciation for such a beautifully composed song and left it at that; internally though, the underlying promise of a place, of a life, so much better than the one they currently lived in— that was their real reason for clinging to the words and constantly offering them to each other. It voiced all of the desires they were too afraid to admit out loud, even to each other. Desires that they feared would be compromised— made unlucky— if they ever spoke about how much they yearned for a change. While Blaine figured it wasn't much of a lively song for a school dance, he wouldn't put it past Skylar to put in the request. After all, there were bound to be some slow songs, right?

'_Oh god, what if he wants to slow dance with me?'_ Blaine took another tentative sip— despite the nausea the sugary drink was causing him— to hide the tenseness in his jaw. He'd wanted to make a statement, show that if he wanted to come here with a boy, as an actual romantic date, that he should be able to— but dancing with one, actually shoving it in everyone's faces… that felt like a step too far. Suddenly it wasn't just the lemonade causing his stomach to rot; his anxiety was going to tear him apart from the inside out. Skylar hummed along to the current song, oblivious to Blaine's rampant afflictions, and bobbed his head rhythmically. The song came to an end and Blaine bit the rim of his cup to keep himself from vomiting words and the contents of his stomach. For a few seconds the only thing that Blaine could hear was the chattering of students throughout the room, reverberating against the high windowpanes, but Skylar beamed, recognizing the song, his song choice, instantly by the lack of immediate guitar rhythms. At the first guitar downbeat Blaine returned the cup to his hand, his paranoia, his unease evaporating when Blink 182's "Not Now" started up.

'_Of course, I should have seen that one coming. That's all he's been singing for days,'_ he felt silly for panicking at all, especially over something as silly as a potential song choice. He let out a breathy laugh, exuding the rest of his nerves, and set his very-much-still-full cup on one of the bleachers.

"Time to dance now, let's go!" Skylar exclaimed before brushing past him to the dance floor. He turned, already rocking his hips in a slightly more experienced but still very teenage-esque fashion, and Blaine sashayed over to join him. They kept their hands to themselves, dissolved into a world of their own— one which they dominated— and worked on showing off to each other, as they'd done countless times in Skylar's bedroom. Blaine felt at ease finally. This dance was something they could conquer and live to tell the tale, again and again, come Monday morning. The reality of such a thought left Blaine dizzy, drunk off of the knowledge that they showed up together at a dance (at school), were actually _dancing_ at said dance (at _school_), within close proximity to each other, and actually having a fairly decent time (_at school._) The little encounter at the refreshment table felt like a distant memory and the endorphins coursing through Blaine's bloodstream offered him a moment of bravery. He reached out and took Skylar's hands in his own, the twinkle in his friend's eyes let Blaine know he was ready for the next move—the move they practiced a thousand different times to a thousand different songs on sunny days, rainy days, I-don't-want-to-talk-so-let's-just-dance-until-I-feel-better-days— and he wouldn't let his fears stop him now.

He pulled Skylar into the "sweetheart position," twisting one of his companion's arms, spinning him around and holding him close to his body before lifting his arm over Skylar's head and pulling him around with his right hand. They spun together, untwisting their arms but still clasping each other's hands tightly; Blaine released his right hand and spun Skylar around once, twice, three times more before the other boy collapsed into Blaine's side, giggling wildly. While it wasn't an appropriate song to put their swing dancing skills to the test, neither of them seemed to mind.

They were on top of the world, their world, without a single care— nothing, and no one, could possibly hurt them now.

* * *

_Come here, please hold my hand for now_

_Help me, I'm scared_

_Please show me how to fight this_

_God has a master plan_

_And I guess_

_I am in his demand_

The music had ended ten minutes ago and the gymnasium was now considerably much emptier than it had been four hours ago, but that didn't stop the two of them from humming and dancing to their own melody. Blaine held Skylar's hand in his own, above their heads, and spun him once as they exited the back doors to the parking lot. The smile plastered to Blaine's face spoke volumes about the events of the night and Skylar's mirrored his.

"I'm really glad you convinced me to go," Skylar unclasped his hand from Blaine's and unbuttoned his blazer. The October wind wasn't enough for them— they were both overheated, sweat glistening on their foreheads in the pale moonlight. "That's the best time I've had in weeks."

"Me too," Blaine grazed the white rose on his lapel, miraculously still perfectly in place, with his thumb. "Hmm… were we supposed to go out to the front instead to be picked up? There's no one here at all."

Skylar gave the vacant parking lot a quick glance and frowned, "Huh, I guess we were. I figured they would have had everyone's parents come back to the same spot they dropped us all off." He shrugged, "Might as well just walk around the side now, it's too stuffy inside."

Blaine laughed in agreement, nodding his head. "After you, my dear," he half bowed and extended his arms in an extravagant gesture. Skylar slapped Blaine's bicep playfully and shook his head. "Such a gentleman you are, Blaine Anderson," Skylar giggled as he passed by him.

"Well, you know me. I aim to please—"

"Where do you think you're going, faggot?"

Blaine had been in very few fights growing up. They had mainly been schoolyard scraps in elementary school, but even ten year olds had the potential to be vicious. One fight in particular came to mind though. He couldn't even remember how it had started— one minute he'd been waiting his turn in line for double dutch and the next he'd discovered all the air had left his lungs and a classmate's fist buried deep into his stomach. He couldn't remember ever feeling so dizzy and winded before… until now. This Walker kid's words left him lightheaded and breathless, much like that punch he'd taken so many years ago.

"Skylar, run!" he managed to gasp out once the rest of his senses caught up to him. Skylar gave Blaine a look that said all that he couldn't: _Like hell I'm going to leave you here alone._

_Please save me, this time I cannot run_

_And I'll see you when this is done_

_And now I have come to realize_

_That you are the one who's left behind_

"Nobody's going anywhere," Walker snapped his fingers and two of his friends came to join him from the shadows beside the school. "You didn't really think I was going to let you get away with screwing up my night, did you? You got me kicked out— why the fuck should you have been allowed to stay?"

"Blaine, what's he talking about?" Skylar reached behind himself and gently closed his hand around Blaine's wrist. It was a harmless gesture, more of a fearful reaction on Skylar's part, but it seemed to brew thunderstorms in Walker's eyes.

"He— there was an accident inside— I didn't mean it, I walked into him and—" Blaine stammered pathetically, keeping his eyes fixed on the three boys before them.

"Oh, was this your date? They let you disgusting things in together?" he spat angrily, his companions' brows furrowing in equal disdain.

"So both of them then, Logan?" the boy to Walker's— well, Logan's— right asked, brandishing a tire iron from thin air.

'_Where the hell did that come from?'_ Blaine stared at the heavy object and his heart thumped a little harder against his ribcage. He knew they should run, knew that there was no good possible outcome from staying, but he was paralyzed. Skylar's hand felt like an anchor on his wrist— neither of them knew what to do.

"Wait, wait, Logan wait. Think about this— you don't want to— you could get expelled, things will just end up worse from here. You can walk away and—" Blaine knew it was useless trying to reason with him, with any of them. He could see the hatred rising off of them like smoke, blinding them from any sort of logical approach. There was only one way this was going to end.

"Both of them," Logan growled menacingly and this seemed to do the trick in forcing Blaine into flight mode. He twisted his wrist until he was able to grasp Skylar's and tugged on it, signaling him to run with him. They had barely been able to take two steps before the third attacker was there in front of him. Before Blaine knew what was happening he found himself on the ground, his hand trying to grasp at asphalt while the absence of Skylar's wrist slowly sank in.

"No! Stop! S-Stop!"

Upon hearing Skylar's screams, Blaine writhed on the pavement, trying to angle his head to find him. For the second time within the time span of five minutes, he found himself completely winded. But whatever had hit him felt nothing like human flesh—oh, no— they were putting that tire iron to good use. He curled into himself, trying to hug away the sharp pain in his stomach. He was aware of the sound of his own wheezy, rattling breath, taking in what felt like far too little oxygen, but couldn't even begin to force himself to focus on anything else. His fetal position left everything else exposed though and he heard Logan's—or someone's— grunting, muddled with Skylar's cries, before the tire iron made itself a new home and nestled itself into Blaine's back.

_Please stay until I'm gone_

_I'm here hold on to me_

_I'm right here_

_Waiting_

He yelped loudly and had no real time to recover— whoever was hitting him grew more and more brutal by the second, giving him less and less time to catch his breath between beatings. He began to lose count of how many times he'd been hit; the only thing he knew for sure was that he had never been in so much agony before. His skin felt both numb and prickly. He couldn't tell what was broken; he simply knew that at least one of his bones had to be. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted his white rose boutonniere— inches away— covered in flecks of red.

'_Is that my blood?'_

All of his pain melded together, making it impossible to pinpoint where he was specifically injured. After seeing the rose though, he could actually feel the blood leaving his body in steady streams. His back was sticky; something dripped down his forehead and into his eyes; his fists were clenched, nails biting crescent moons into his palms; everything just _hurt_. He couldn't hear Skylar anymore. The world around him was beginning to sound like a muffled cocktail of vicious grunts, breaking bones, and his own ragged breath.

'_Help. God, someone, please help us.'_

"Hey, what are you guys doing over there!"

And then suddenly, it all stopped. All of the muffled yelling and metal colliding with skin.

'_Who are you?'_

Metal clanged against pavement, just beside his head. The sound sent shockwaves through his brain, his poor throbbing brain.

'_Is Skylar okay?'_

Footsteps retreated.

'_Make sure Skylar's okay.'_

And more footsteps approached.

'_Goddamnit, fucking check on Skylar! Move! Move…'_

"Jesus… Can you hear me? Hey, kid, it's going to be okay,"

'_When did I close my eyes?'_

"Kid, can you hear me?"

He tried to speak, he really did. Tried to ask about Skylar, tried to ask who was there, but all that he could manage was a soft whine. It seemed to be all the affirmation that this stranger needed though.

"Yeah, he's alive! What about the one by you, Jesse?"

Blaine descended into darkness before he could hear the answer.

_I see a light, it feels good_

_And I'll come back soon just like you would_

_It's useless, my name has made the list_

_And I wish_

_I gave you one last kiss_

* * *

**So obviously… this was my take on what happened at the Sadie Hawkins dance. I don't know if Blaine was actually friends with whomever he took to the dance with him on the show, but I like to think that he was. Hence…. Skylar. **

**The format for the majority of this story will alternate between past events and present ones to portray a series of parallels throughout Blaine's life. **

**Please let me know what you guys thought about this one!**


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